I like to write junk...

VIVA FRANCE?

“The pro-Palestinian movement is a great example of people who don’t have a clue about the real history of Israel, Palestine, and Gaza.”

I’m so thankful that God blessed me with a working brain, and I try to use it as often as possible. There’ve been times when I didn’t, and the results showed. One such occasion was my first flight with my father in his small Piper Cherokee. I’d traveled in the back seat for a short trip, with my brother sitting next to Dad.

After we landed and the engine was still running, Jim and I decided to switch places, and I had to step out onto the wing to make this happen. Back inside, I told them it was windy outside, not quickly grasping that the turning propeller was creating the breeze. I believe they both thought I was joking, and after my brain reengaged, I saw the light and stayed mum.

Two educational areas I’ve been blessed with are reading comprehension and common sense. I always scored high on school and college tests where I read something and then had to correctly interpret it. The same goes for listening. On subjects where I’m up to speed, I quickly realize when someone is feeding me cow manure instead of the truth.

President George W. Bush and President Barack Hussein Obama, in speeches, both claimed that Islam is a religion of peace. My research says otherwise, and countless acts throughout history, from the sixth century to now, prove both men wrong.

Even news outlets have made that same claim, which makes me wonder how many people believe this, or if they just don’t want to rock the boat and go along with it. It’s good to see some brave folks starting to voice their honest opinions, as taboo as that may seem. Commentator Benny Johnson is one of them.

The pro-Palestinian movement is a great example of people who don’t have a clue about the real history of Israel, Palestine, and Gaza. Behind all this violence are, you guessed it, Islamic extremists and young communist sympathizers.

We’re watching the results of this play out in France and Spain, with the same about to happen in New York, Boston, Seattle, Portland, Detroit, Minneapolis, and other major Democratic run cities where Muslims have taken over.

If you don’t want to believe it can happen in your town, keep watching mainstream media for your slanted news, as many seem to do. These news agencies seem to ally with the Muslim Brotherhood.

Thankfully, we have a president who recognizes this growing dilemma and has closed the borders. Should Democrats get back in power, with extremist politicians representing Middle Eastern culture, and especially should the borders reopen, it’s lock-and-load time.

Of course, for those who can’t, I don’t even want to go there. You can get a good sense of what I mean by watching what’s happening in France. Of course, you’ll have to tune in to something besides CNN or MSNBC to get the real picture.

In closing, I’d bet that the legitimate citizens of the United Kingdom, Spain, France, and other countries where gun ownership is banned wish they could purchase firearms like Americans.

That’s one thing that’ll slow the burning and vandalism in the US. Foremost, though, are daily prayers asking God to protect us from these demonic savages, who, unfortunately, like in the United Kingdom, are already here.

STORMY WEATHER

“Easing into my chair, I found the noise had only gotten louder, with metal rattling from a house next door.”

Storm lifting a trailer above the Edmund Pettus Bridge in Selma, Alabama

Watching television reports of Hurricane Isaias inflicting heavy damage in the South and tropical storm Rachel bringing high winds and torrential rains to the West, including Lake Havasu City, I sat back in my easy chair and listened to the ruckus outside. Chairs and tables flew around, smacking against our house.

The American flag I meant to take down snapped and popped with each gust. At this point, I decided to go outside and survey the damage. It was raining cats and dogs, and I could hear a river rushing down the nearby wash.

A 20-year-old Pygmy Palm tree, like a drunken sailor, was lying on its side for the umpteenth time. The wire support that held it up had broken. Securing the flag and deciding to let the palm tree sleep things off, I was glad to finally go back inside.

Plopping into my comfortable chair, I found the noise had only gotten louder, with metal rattling from a house next door. Praying that the Lord would keep damage to a minimum, I thought of my late Papa and Mama Haynes and their little farm in Vernon, Alabama. They had a storm shelter carved into a hill, with a wooden door.

I can remember spending one night in this cave when a hurricane hit off Alabama’s coast, sending tornadoes throughout the state. Mama Haynes had quilts inside along with candles, matches, and a kerosene lamp. I don’t recall a bed, since I don’t think the dwelling was big enough to hold one.

My brother and I explored this storm shelter many times, and it always smelled damp and earthy. Salamanders called it home, and I now wonder if snakes did, too. Mom told me that, as a little girl, her parents and four sisters used it many times. Mama Haynes was a praying dynamo, and I doubt she stopped praying until each storm ended.

That old storm shelter eventually collapsed. I’m sure everything is still inside, since my grandparents never excavated the fallen dirt. I wanted to, but by then the property was sold.

With no storm shelter here in Havasu, and only four walls and a roof to protect us, and no basement to hide in, Joleen and I can only ask God to fortify our structure whenever these rare storms come up.

Thankfully, I insisted on hurricane straps on the garage roof trusses, although the builder said they weren’t needed. Code required them, and our building supervisor, John Ballard, had to literally shove this paperwork in the guy’s face.

I feel much safer now in a storm than I did in a trailer. Only those who’ve lived in mobile homes during high winds will know what I mean. In Alabama and Texas, there were times when I thought ours would blow away like Dorothy and Toto’s house in Kansas.

Joleen and I might not have a storm cellar, but we have something better, and there are no salamanders. I’ll simply ask God to protect us, but if it’s my time to go during an Arizona storm, I’d sure like to bring that old easy chair along.

Bearded man floating in armchair above a desert town during a dust storm

DOCTORS PREFER CAMEL

“Here in Havasu, I’ve watched Dr. Thomas Wrona retire, Dr. Pareed Aliyar, and, just recently, Dr. C. Reese Mead, my dentist.”

Children in a school cafeteria share candy cigarettes; bulletin board reads “LUNCHROOM RULES” and “GRADE 3 PROJECTS 1960.”

I’ve had several doctors retire over the years here in Lake Havasu City and in Anchorage, Alaska. Dr. John J. Smith retired after like 50 years of practice in Alaska, with Dr. Ernest Meinhardt taking over some of his family medical patients, with me being one of the lucky ones. Dr. Meinhardt had a dry sense of humor, yet I could make him crack a smile.

Meinhardt was the main flight physical examiner in Anchorage, and he owned an airplane. A picture of the Helio Courier was on his office wall, with the late Alaskan explorer Lowell Thomas Jr. having one almost identical.

Only doctors, lawyers, and successful businesspeople seemed to buy these Helio planes because they are expensive to maintain. I’ve never seen one at the Havasu airport.

I once asked Dr. Meinhardt if he thought I could fly helicopters. Looking at me, with a hardened face, he said, “You’ve got high blood pressure, vertigo, inner ear problems, and I just prescribed Xanax for your anxiety attacks. What do you think?” After that, he let go with a rare smile.

Dr. Joshua Wright II was my Anchorage dentist, and I was his client long enough to see him retire and leave the practice. Dr. Wright was also a politician, and several of my letters to the editor went against the grain on how he viewed things. Wright was a staunch Democrat while I was Republican. Despite this, we still got along, and I trusted his medical advice on teeth and oral health.

Here in Havasu, I’ve watched Dr. Thomas Wrona retire, Dr. Pareed Aliyar, and, just recently, Dr. C. Reese Mead, my dentist. My wife and I attended Dr. Mead’s going-away function outside his office.

A live DJ played music, with free non-alcoholic beverages from Sip Pop Culture and tasty hors d’oeuvres provided by a local caterer. This food was finger-lickin’ good, as the Colonel likes to say.

Dr. Wrona and his wife were there, and she’s also a retired dentist. Listening to the conversation going on around me, there was no lack of professional folks, along with dental clients like Joleen and me, or is that Joleen and I?

Years ago, when Dr. John J. Smith retired in Anchorage, I wanted to wrap a carton of Camel cigarettes as a gift, because back in the 1940s and 1950s, the R.J. Reynolds Tobacco Company advertised that doctors recommended Camel over all other brands.

Dr. Smith didn’t smoke, and I thought this joke was perfect for his retirement. I didn’t go through with it after being told this was a waste of money and he might be offended.

How I wish I hadn’t listened to that person because I now believe the good doctor, along with his medical colleagues, would’ve thought it hilarious. Dr. Smith lived to be 94, and I hope all of my doctors make it that far or further.

For Dr. Reese Mead’s retirement, a few pieces of Reese’s candy were tossed into his card basket. Someone told me that dentists can sometimes be the biggest candy aficionados. I’m not sure Dr. Mead is, but he can get rid of it quickly with Halloween coming up.

Speaking of Halloween, candy, and cigarettes. Just recently, I saw an advertisement for a box of different varieties of candy cigarettes, undoubtedly meant for the upcoming holiday.

When I was a kid in Selma, Alabama, some parents occasionally gave out these popular candy delights when we trick-or-treated. They all tasted the same to me, much like sweetened chalk.

For a brief two seconds, I thought of buying a carton and sending them to my youngest grandchildren. After thinking it over, kids these days would probably be expelled from school for having such contraband in their lunchboxes. I can still visualize one of them sitting in their school lunchroom, pulling out a pack and passing it around to classmates like soldiers do in old war movies.

This act wasn’t punishable in 1960, but today, being a student and trying to have harmless fun in the classroom without causing a serious nuclear meltdown is a thin line to walk. I would’ve never survived!

STEREOTYPE HYPE

“Sadly, that city has now joined the vestiges of other Democrat ruined populaces, to put things bluntly.”

Weathered white Nissan Sentra parked on a rainy street with “MEAN PEOPLE SUCK” sticker

My great-grandfather James Burton Hankins was a dirt farmer in rural Fayette County, Alabama, and a fire-and-brimstone Baptist preacher on the side. I never met Grandpa Jim, as he died in 1950, four years before I was born. Dad, Mom, and my grandparents told me many interesting stories about him.

I’ve seen pictures, and he was an imposing figure, standing somewhere around six feet five. That was very tall back then and still is. My father inherited the tallness genes, but my brother and I took after Mom and were on the shorter side.

Grandpa Jim didn’t mince words, while I took after him in that respect. A bucket of manure was called a bucket of manure and still is. My brother and I were never allowed to use the S word like other kids.

Political correctness wasn’t invented that far back, as some of the comments my grandparents used still have me chuckling to this day. My favorite is ‘shacking up,’ which I only tell people when my wife is around. Joleen deplores that remark and quickly launches into an informational about how long we’ve been legally married: 49 years and counting.

Some other terms my grandparents and parents used were ‘illegitimate child’, although I can see that one not being accepted, as it was no fault of the child that parents weren’t married. ‘Shotgun wedding’ is another favorite. Living in sin was often mentioned, and that’s still very relevant.

Sometime back I spotted a small sticker on the rear window of a beat-up car that read: MEAN PEOPLE SUCK. I’m not sure Grandpa Jim ever owned a car, but if he did, that’s the kind of sticker he’d put on it. Wanting to know whether mean people suck is in the Bible, I looked it up and found that Proverbs 15:9 comes close.

“The Lord detests the way of the wicked, but he loves those who pursue righteousness”.

I’ve encountered mean people throughout my life, many of whom took their anger out on children, spouses, pets, and even strangers. This meanness is sometimes fueled by ‘liquid spirits,’ although most of the time it’s the spirit of Satan dwelling inside of them. I took the driver of this vehicle for kind-hearted, although they could’ve just bought it with the decal.

My former pastor in Anchorage, Dr. Jerry Prevo, was small in stature, but over the years I saw him stand up to large, unruly groups. He never backed down, although the left-leaning ‘Anchorage Daily News’ constantly waged a war against him for unapologetically preaching the Gospel and stepping on people’s toes. Sadly, that city has now joined the vestiges of other Democrat ruined populaces, to put things bluntly.

It’s not the case in this town yet, or in many states in the Bible Belt of the South, but there’s a growing movement in the East to ban preaching the Holy Bible on the same lines as hate crimes.

If you spot a fish emblem on the back of a car or truck with Darwin written in the middle, you’ve undoubtedly just encountered one of those indoctrinated atheist types. They didn’t buy the vehicle this way, because anyone with a lick of sense would promptly remove it.

Some will say, “Gee, Mr. Hankins, you sure can make up biased stories based solely upon mean people decals and plastic Darwin fish emblems!” Yes, I can. It’s called stereotyping, and I’m an expert here; just ask my wife.

One of my favorite people to stereotype are those riding Harleys with ‘ape-hanger’ handlebars. I mean those handlebars sticking up seemingly a foot above a rider’s head. I tell Joleen that these guys and gals have watched “Easy Rider” a few too many times. Real bikers won’t disagree, or at least the honest ones.

Yes, I know it goes against the Bible to judge someone based solely on their looks. John 7:24 says: Do not judge according to appearance, but judge with righteous judgment.”

All I can say here is that I’m working on it, along with other shortcomings. I’ve somewhat gotten through my stereotype that all height-challenged guys driving lifted trucks have ‘short man syndrome.’

I’m making progress in other areas too, as I no longer believe that pipe smokers are automatically the worst drivers. Textaholics have taken over that spot.

Dating myself here, it was popular back in the 50s and 60s for some young fellows to stick an unlit cigarette above their earlobe as a symbol of coolness. I never saw it that way and still don’t. That popular Forrest Gump phrase, “Stupid is as stupid does,” comes to mind.

In Anchorage, Alaska, if a neighbor had a 36-can empty beer box sitting by their garbage can each week, which one fellow always did, I figured they were alcoholics. That doesn’t hold true here in hot Havasu. It’d take two of those empty boxes for me to think the same.

Lifted pickup truck on a street by London Bridge Resort and lake

I LANDED IN HEAVEN

“Balance is essential for a model rocket to successfully lift off and go straight up without problems.”

Count me as guilty. I’ve done a few things in my life that violate our country’s laws, like exceeding the posted speed limit, but I’m now fixing that by driving slower than the speed limit. In a couple more years, my slate should be totally wiped clean.

Something else I violated, or at least think I did, was the National Association of Rocketry safety code. This was many years ago, and I can’t remember whether I ever signed the sheet that came with an Estes-brand model rocket.

For several years, my son and I built model rockets and flew them successfully. I think that might have helped him eventually join the United States Space Force. I’ll have to ask Gunnar that question sometime.

Being a hot rodder at heart, I couldn’t help but put a couple of solid-propellant rocket engines on a toy car and light them off on Fern Lane. That was the road in front of our house in Alaska. This goes against the safety code.

With a crowd of spectators watching, the car set a new land speed record for that stretch of asphalt before running off the road and crashing into a neighbor’s truck tire. No damage was done.

Knowing I wasn’t setting a good example for my son and other kids, I performed my next experiment in secret, much like Lockheed’s Skunk Works. This entailed stuffing three rocket engines onto one rocket tube. Balance is essential for a model rocket to successfully lift off and go straight up without problems.

Taking my creation to a large field, I lit it off and watched as it danced in every direction possible before heading toward some houses and then changing course. The parachute eventually popped out, and I retrieved things. Some kid had been watching, and he walked up asking me, “You didn’t balance it, did you?”

I quit tinkering with rockets then and experimented with making Gunnar’s gravity-propelled AWANA model cars faster with some illegal modifications. I didn’t know that went against the rules at the time, as I’d never read the instructions. I suppose that’s akin to telling a police officer you didn’t know the speed limit after being pulled over.

One of the first cars I helped Gunnar build, with me doing 99% of the work, jumped out of its lane much like that wayward rocket, and took out several other cars. You guessed it. Improperly balanced.

I’ve had the same problem towing trailers, opening several heavy toolbox drawers at the same time including filing cabinets, and leaning out too far while using a ladder. That last one hurt. Just recently, I wrote a song titled “I landed in Heaven.”

It’s an imaginary tune with a serious and spiritual message. You can find it on YouTube under the same title beginning October 22nd. Look for a photo of a large homemade rocket ship on the cover, like the one in this story.

Children racing small cars on an Awana Grand Prix track — Children cheer as handmade cars speed down the Awana Grand Prix track.

MAFIA STAFF CAR

“Twenty years ago, Havasu 100 supposedly comprised the most influential movers and shakers in town.”

Three men in suits beside a vintage car outside a New York deli

Years ago, I had a friend who put a small reflective decal on his parents’ big black Oldsmobile that read: MAFIA STAFF CAR. It was so fitting that they left the decal on. I see those stickers are still available, yet I know of no new vehicles that’d be appropriate to sport one. Back in the day, large black Cadillacs, Lincolns, Pontiacs, and Oldsmobiles fit the mafia profile perfectly. Stereotype comes to mind here.

In 1977, an article appeared in newspapers throughout the country, written by a conglomerate of investigative reporters for UPI, or United Press International. The article originally argued that mafia-connected individuals were turning newly established Lake Havasu City into a base of operations for illegal activities in the West. The article mentioned several names, and I recognized a few. More on that later.

This article mentioned the Havasu 100, with that namesake tied to three different factions. Around twenty years ago, one of the Havasu 100 groups supposedly comprised the most influential movers and shakers in town. I never saw an actual list, and supposedly, through grumbling in the social community, a few individuals were miffed that they didn’t make it. Evidently, I wasn’t on the list because I was never invited to their supposed fancy shindigs.

The 100 Club of Arizona is a group of benefactors who support families of first responders. The group is still active, and you can find it by Googling it. People often confuse the 100 Club of Arizona with the Havasu 100.

The archived 1977 newspaper article mentions another Havasu 100, made up of 100 Italian residents of our city. They represented the Italian Anti-Defamation League, led by Edward Eugene Frederico. There was an Italian connection in town back then, but I’d refrain from labeling them all as mafia, as that newspaper article vaguely insinuates.

Two of those Italians mentioned in the story are the late Joseph Scavuzzo, a former real estate tycoon, and Quinto Leo Polidori. I can see Quinto’s former home from my house, as it sits high on a hill overlooking the city and lake. I met Mr. Polidori once before he passed away. He was an automobile aficionado with many collectible cars, and his garage was phenomenal.

The former ‘Polidori House’ for ailing senior citizens was named after the family because they donated land for it, including much of the building materials. This hospital, or hospice center, is now permanently closed. The large building now houses Lakehouse Assisted Living.

It’s doubtful anyone can say one bad word about Joe Scavuzzo, and I don’t know how his name and Quinto Polidori’s ended up in a story about the mafia. I met Joe through Randy Randall, a former realtor here in town. Mr. Scavuzzo was quite old at the time, yet still working hard to sell homes and property.

Unfortunately, Italians for years have had to fight off the mafia stigma, especially if they have names even vaguely resembling mobsters. Had former Mayor Jim Spezzano moved to town before 1980, he too would’ve found his name in that piece.

Just like the mafia staff-car stigma of a black Cadillac or Lincoln back in the day, some last names will always arouse suspicion. John Gotti comes to mind here, although I found no record of him ever doing business in Lake Havasu City, at least not under that name.

Where else can I take this story? I couldn’t find any record of anyone being arrested in Lake Havasu City on mafia-related charges. I doubt UPI would even run the story these days, as it seems more like innuendo than anything else.

Then again, we’ve seen stories from past years where factual information was out there, yet no one wanted to cover it. The Hunter Biden laptop fiasco is a good one. Perhaps there’s more to the Havasu mafia connection than what I came across, but I’ll let someone else do the digging. After making it this far in life, I’d hate to become another Jimmy Hoffa!

Vintage sedan labeled “MAFIA STAFF GAR” parked outside Walmart

PEEPING TOMS?

“Garage peepin’ isn’t a crime yet, but I do know there are some gearheads that despise the act.”

One of my favorite humorous songs from back in the day is “Harper Valley P.T.A.” by Jeannie C. Riley. This song is about a divorced single mother who is criticized in a letter from the P.T.A. secretary for wearing miniskirts and not being a responsible parent to her daughter. One of the song lines goes like this: “Shouldn’t Widow Jones be told to keep her window shades all pulled completely down.”

I’ve never run across anything like that in Lake Havasu City, but I suppose there are some homes, most likely on the ______ side of town. Yes, that was done intentionally for you to fill in the blank. If the Harper Valley P.T.A. elected officials ever came to our city on a Saturday during the summer and just walked through a grocery store, they’d have to shield their eyes. I suppose I’ve gotten used to it and don’t stare like some old guys still do.

One thing I’m guilty of is ‘garage peepin’ as it’s called around here. Thankfully, my first name isn’t Tom. If you leave your garage door up and I happen to drive by, I’ll slow down just a tad to geek. It’s not that I’m canvassing your place to rob or anything of the like. I like to point out to my wife those garages so full of stuff that nothing else will fit inside. That makes me feel better about my own mess.

I’m also on the lookout for hot rods and project cars sitting inside, either being worked on or long-overdue projects collecting dust. I spot more of the latter, it seems. There’s nothing wrong with that because I’ve been guilty of the same. This town is full of hot rods yet to hit the street, and each time a new one appears, it’s said that a bell rings. Or was that each time an angel gets wings? Whatever!

Garage peepin’ isn’t a crime yet, but I do know there are some gearheads that despise the act. I have one friend who says out loud whenever someone slowly rolls by his place and stares into his wide-open garage, “Take a picture, Buddy, it’ll last longer!” Chuckling to myself, I know that I’m guilty of doing the same thing as that ‘garage peeper.’

Like Widow Jones in Harper Valley, I suppose a select few folks intentionally leave their garage doors up, proud of what’s inside. The LHPD would say that’s not wise, since it gives thieves a smorgasbord view of stuff they can easily carry away. Pest control agencies would undoubtedly view this as an open door for snakes, spiders, and scorpions to walk right on in.

I always keep my garage doors down during summer and winter, as I don’t like ‘garage peepers’ looking in at my junk, while at the same time, there’s a big one already walking around inside of it. I suppose that makes me a peepin’ hypocrite, or somethin’ to that effect. Just don’t call me a peepin’ Tom!

MICHAEL’S SONG

“I wrote this prayer as needed comfort; the lyrics are mine, while the music is by A-I.

[Stanza 1]

I pray each night

For fam’ly and friends.

Sometimes it’s hard

Rememberin’ names.

[Stanza 2]

There are so many

Needin’ God’s blessed help

I have a long list

That I go down.

[Stanza 3]

Add jus’ one more

To that lengthy column

This name is Michael

Of all people.

[Stanza 4]

A simple procedure

Which involves my heart

Has me worried

About tha outcome.

[Stanza 5]

Help all those doctors

Workin’ on me

Give their hands

Needed dexterity.

[Stanza 6]

Have me awaken

After all is done

And my heart beatin’

In sinus rhythm.

[Stanza 7]

Should all this fail

And I not survive

You’ll have my soul

Please take it to Heaven.

[Instrumental]

[Stanza 8]

My wife still needs me

As do both parrots

With two grown children

And five grandkids.

[stanza 9]

I’d like to hang ’round

For several more years

There are things to see

Like grandchildren’s weddings.

[Stanza 10]

I wrote this prayer

As needed comfort

The lyrics are mine

While the music is by A-I.

[Stanza 11]

Artificial intelligence

Couldn’t write these words

Because you see

It has no rhythm or soul.

[Stanza 12]

It’s merely a tool

For our own use

And will help me out

Even in tha hospital center.

[Stanza 13]

A-I technology

Is here to stay

And it’s all good

If used tha right way.

[Stanza 14]

God provides this

As he does air and water

A-I will totally program

My P-F-A procedure.

[Stanza 15]

The Man upstairs

Will be guidin’ nurses and doctors

While closely watchin’ over me and my heart.

I thank him for that!

Amen

[Instrumental]

CAHABA BURGER

“His burgers went for twenty cents back then, and I’m sure that cheese was extra.”

Very few folks in Selma

Will undoubtedly remember

A man named Sidney Earl Fisher

Former carpenter, fireman, and dirt farmer.

The biggest business accomplishment

In his 67 years of livin’ in Dallas County

Was openin’ a small

Cold drink and snack stand

That Mr. Fisher named Cahaba Burger.

Located on Main Street

In the ghost town of Cahaba

His burgers went for twenty cents back then

And I’m sure that cheese was extra.

There’s only so much data

On this former Alabama entrepreneur

So, I must fill in the gaps using ad-lib

And other assumed information.

According to various newspaper articles

This burger stand

Was one of a few, if not the only

Business still operating

In Old Cahaba.

That’d never happen today

Without a robbery for sure.

Those icy Cokes

On swelterin’ summer days

Were truly a blessing

While eatin’ a cheeseburger and fries.

Sidney Earl Fisher had dreams

Of Old Cahaba seein’ restoration

With hopes of it becomin’

A huge tourist destination.

Sadly, he wouldn’t live to see

It become a State Park.

In and out of Selma Baptist Hospital

Sidney unfortunately passed away

On April 16, 1970

After becoming seriously Ill.

The weather that dark and gloomy Thursday

Was reported as rainy with thunderstorms.

Sadly, Cahaba Burger also died

And the place would never reopen.

There’s a way that we can still remember

Sidney Earl Fisher

And his unique burger stand.

After grilling beef patties

Toss your favorite peppers

Into the toasted sesame seed buns

And call them Cahaba Burgers.

Take a bite in memory of Sid.

THE CAHABA ITCH

“The oak trees were huge, with Spanish moss hanging from them like something out of a horror movie.”

Three boys wearing blue jeans and tee shirts

Sometime around 1960, my family and some friends drove to Cahaba, Alabama; this was the state’s first capital, not far from Selma.

It was late in the afternoon, and at this time, Old Cahaba was not a state park, open to poking around anywhere you wanted, only having to fear snakes and not park rangers. Dad and Mom told us boys to watch for vipers, but she didn’t really have to.

The oak trees were huge, with Spanish moss hanging from them like something out of a horror movie. We covered a lot of ground quickly, examining ruins and watching out not only for snakes but also for boards with nails.

It wasn’t the safest place to be walking around back then, yet the way I like things now, as I’m not partial to manicured pathways and roped-off areas, although they need to be for some people.

Cahaba, Alabama, became Alabama’s first state capital in 1819, shortly after Alabama achieved statehood. Located at the confluence of the Cahaba River and the Alabama River, it was chosen for its strategic location and access to transportation routes.

In its early years, Cahaba was a bustling town whose population grew as it became the region’s political and economic center. The town saw significant development, with many public buildings, homes, and businesses. At its peak in the 1830s and 1840s, Cahaba thrived, and its river access and fertile land helped it grow as a trading hub.

However, Cahaba’s prominence was short-lived. The arrival of the railroad in the 1850s diverted trade routes and reduced the town’s economic importance. In 1846, the capital was moved to Montgomery, which further contributed to Cahaba’s decline.

The town eventually became largely abandoned, and by the late 19th century, many of its buildings were in ruins. Cahaba was also historically significant during the Civil War. It was used as a base for Confederate troops and saw military activity during the conflict. It’s now a ghost town.

I had visions of finding an old gun lying in the woods or perhaps some old coins, ancient treasures only a boy with an imaginary mind would conjure up. We guys spent as much time as possible poking around in the bushes with those spooky oak trees all around, not finding anything, or at least nothing of value that my brother and I recall.

Hearing yells that it was time to go, we loaded back into the car, undoubtedly a bit sweaty in the Alabama humidity. On our drive home, we discovered we’d found something after all, as we’d picked up “The Cahaba Itch” from either poison oak or poison ivy and had it bad. Undoubtedly, Mom brought out the Calamine Lotion, a potion that worked for a short time before itching resumed.

Besides those old oak trees loaded with creepy moss, that’s how I best remember that one trip to Old Cahaba, with us going back a few more times but smart enough at this point to stay outta the woods.

I always dreamed of heading there with a metal detector, but right now I’d be arrested by a park ranger. I’m smart enough to watch out for snakes, poisonous bushes, and most of all, those folks wearing badges. That wisdom is being put to good use here in Lake Havasu City, Arizona.

Scorpion weed is just as bad as the poisonous weeds we dealt with as kids in Alabama, or even worse. I didn’t learn about it until I walked through a patch of pretty purple flowers in my low-cut socks and sandals. My skin, after coming into contact with it, immediately started blistering. Calamine lotion came in handy once again!

Ghostly soldiers concealed among moss-draped oaks